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“You've fenced a good bit more.”

“Yes—specially up in the Bald Hills. . . . My word, Tony, you’ve grown! You’ve knocked about a lot—but I always knew you would. Oh, by the way, remember Munro? He only left last Christmas—he’d have been glad to see you.”

“Would he? Seven years is a long time. . . . Any other of the men here?”

“Well—it’s a long time, as you say! Let’s see—Walters was here when you were, wasn’t he? I have him still, but men don’t stay many years nowadays—not as a rule.”

“What about Castlereagh? He was a good sort.”

“Dead. Drink, mostly.”

“Ah! He was jolly decent to me. . . .”

For a minute or two Tony did not speak, not from emotion, but because his mind had gone back a long way—a long, dusty road. Castlereagh had, as far as in him lay (which was not very far, but it counted), been a fence between Tony and Baldwin. . . .

Robertson’s voice came in with the echo of the name.

“I saw Baldwin in town the other day. He was pretty drunk too. I didn’t speak to him—or give him the chance to speak to me. You know I had to dismiss him———”

“Did you? I didn’t know.”

Robertson looked at him curiously, and Tony looked back, but his eyes were masked. He was on the point of telling the Boss all about that affair; he knew that by no possible chance could it be quite clear to him—the Boss is always the last to hear that sort of news!—but, after all, what was the use? It was all so long ago—and he was top dog now.

“Are those the sheep?” he said.

Robertson raised a vigilant head.

“Yes—some of ’em. There ought to be a lot more. Ride round by the fence and we’ll collect the others.”